What's in a Name
by snooky-9093
Summary: Stalag 13 or Luft Stalag 13? Which is it? Where is it? And it must have opened on a Friday!
1. An Unwelcome Visitor with Unwelcome News

_._

_What's in a Name?_

_Chapter One_

_An Unwelcome Visitor with Unwelcome News_

_May, 1940_

Oberst Wilhelm Klink, still uncomfortable with his new post as Kommandant of a small, out-of-the-way POW Luft Stalag, was completely stressed-out as his camp was subjected to an unexpected visit and inspection taking place in front of his still untested staff, and the few prisoners they guarded. The haughty Berlin bureaucrat, Oberst Wolfram Gratz of the Wehrmacht, sent over on orders from the high command, kept Klink and his portly Sergeant of the Guard, Hans Schultz, walking double-time in order to keep up. Gratz gave a few disinterested glances at the huts, some of which were in various stages of construction. He ignored the prisoners' mess and recreation halls, but hurried over to the empty infirmary, opened the door, poked his head in, and then quickly closed the door.

"Your office."

"Are you sure you don't wish to see our delousing station?" Klink asked with fake enthusiasm.

Gratz, a man of few words, replied. "No. Your office." He didn't wait for Klink to lead the way, but instead barreled past the Kommandant.

"Your office is my office," Klink said as he adjusted his monocle. He hurried after Gratz as Schultz followed, bringing up the rear. "Wait outside," Klink ordered the sergeant.

"Hold all calls," Gratz said as he opened Klink's door.

"Hold all calls," Klink repeated.

Schultz saluted and then took a seat. He waited for the inner office door to close, then leaned back in the chair and put his feet on the desk, sighing as he did so.

"Don't you have a secretary or aide yet, Kommandant Klink?" Gratz reached into an inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a folded map.

"Not yet. I'm beginning interviews next week," Klink replied, deliberately neglecting to mention he had finagled the budget in order to hire a civilian female secretary from the nearby town.

"I'll have one assigned." Gratz cleared off Klink's desk with one large sweep of this left arm, flinging the papers and office supplies on the floor.

Klink scrambled to pick up the mess. Fortunately, that was all that was on the floor, for his prized possessions - the humidor given to him by his late uncle and his pickelhaub from the Great War - were not yet in the place of honor on his desk, as they were still en route with some of his other personal belongings. As he bent down, the Wehrmacht officer hit the desk with his hand, startling the Kommandant, who dropped his monocle. As Klink began to search for the glass, Gratz barked at Klink. "Look at this and tell me what you see," he said, paying no attention to the fact that Klink was on the floor.

"Ah." Klink found his monocle, picked it up, blew off the dust and hastily put it back on his eye. Without missing a beat, he stood up. "I see a map."

"Obviously." Gratz sneered at Klink. "Look at this map."

Klink bent over, gazed at the map for a second, and then commented. "It's a map of the POW system as of last month."

"And?"

"And? Here we are?" Klink pointed to a mark located southeast of Düsseldorf. The town of Hamelburg, the closest population center, was written in small letters. "Yes, there we are!" Klink repeated. He looked at Gratz, confused as to why they were engaged in a geography lesson.

"What is wrong with this picture, Klink?" Gratz asked, realizing that Klink had no grasp of the obvious. "Look." His finger pointed to a large complex in Bavaria, and then to Klink's small camp near Düsseldorf.

"Why, that's odd." Klink then chuckled. "There are two Stalag 13's! Imagine that! Obviously, there is a typo."

"No, Dummkopf. There is no typo. You are in District 6. These are in District 13. And there are two Hamelburgs. Your stalag has been mismarked."

Klink's mouth hung open for a moment. _The whole world is coming to an end, and he's worried about a clerical error. _Fortunately_, _Klink thought before he spoke. "Oh. Well, we're clearly labeled on the map. I fail to see why this should be an issue. Besides, we are Hamelburg with one M. They are Hammelburg with two M's." Klink chuckled nervously. "I had a friend who studied in America for several years. It was before the last war. He told me there were many Springfields in America. Imagine that?"

"You fail to see why this would be an issue, Klink?" Gratz sighed in unfeigned impatience, as he ignored Klink's trivia. "Don't you see the problem? You are a Luft Stalag. Down here, these camps are run by the Wehrmacht. There will be officer camps, enlisted camps and smaller work camps located in the vicinity. What if there is a mix-up and someone sends you an officer? Where would you put him?"

"Well, that's highly unlikely. But if it happened, one of our barracks comes with another room. Like a suite." Klink chuckled.

"I fail to see how that is funny."

"You're correct, it's not funny."

"You know, we discovered the person who made the clerical error."

"Is he going to fix his mistake?" Klink asked.

"He's in prison. He's lucky he wasn't shot. Personally, I would send him east. I have a feeling that area will blow up one day, and we'll be fighting the Russians." Gratz shook his head. "But don't quote me on that," he added hastily. "Or I'll have you shot as well."

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"Never mind. You need to fix this. The other camp will be larger and is much more important. And you're in a different district. I don't care how. I don't want this going any higher. The upper echelon has other things to worry about. Like building more camps. Eventually, we'll be overflowing with prisoners."

"But…But…Gratz. I have don't have the budget…" Klink had a good head for figures, and he was beginning to hyperventilate at the thought of the massive amount of paperwork involved in renaming the camp. "You don't understand…"

"Handle it! Or you can deal with the future consequences. Don't say I didn't warn you. And now I've forgotten your name, and your pitiful camp." Gratz turned on his heels, and slammed the door as he left. Fortunately, Schultz had good hearing and got his feet off the desk with seconds to spare. He jumped up as fast as his massive frame would allow, and saluted the departing officer.

"Schuuultzzz!" came the cry from the office; this was a sound that the Sergeant feared he would be hearing for quite some time, as it was his experience, both in the Great War and now, that officers could not function on their own.

He waddled over to the office and slowly opened the door. "You called, Kommandant?"

"Schultz, come in here and clean up this mess," replied the officer.

* * *

Thank you Konarciq, ColHogan for their advice. Hugs to my daughter for coming up with the teaser.


	2. Can We At Least Keep Our Phone Number?

_What's in a Name_

_Chapter 2_

_Can We At Least Keep Our Phone Number?_

"Do they realize what a problem this is?" Klink rubbed his hands together as he paced absentmindedly across the room. "There are signs, stationery, business cards, forms. Not to mention the maps. Can you imagine how many maps are out there? No you probably couldn't. And the Red Cross must be notified."

"But Kommandant, we only have a few prisoners. And since you have been here, there haven't been any escapes," Schultz added in an attempt to butter up his boss.

Klink puffed up. "Yes, you're right. There have not been any escapes. As I said, we need to notify the Red Cross. We do everything by the book here at Stalag 13. Geneva Convention and all."

"Abssssoooolllutely!"

"Get me the head of supply for this sector, and get me someone from the POW office in Berlin," Klink told Schultz.

Once Schultz was connected to the appropriate department, Klink got on the phone. After going up the supply chain, he was told in no uncertain terms that there was a war on, and that it wasn't their fault that his camp had been numbered incorrectly. When told of the threat on Klink's life (Klink didn't believe for a second Gratz's words that he would forget about the camp and the Kommandant) should the error not be rectified, the man on the other end of the phone broke down in hysterical laughter, and then hung up the line. Klink wisely decided that it would be more expedient to use his considerable influence in the town, pad his books, and get the necessary items himself. How he would get the maps reprinted, the official number changed, and the Red Cross notified was a matter for another time, as his calls and inquiries to the department in charge of POW's were not returned. The man who had assigned him to this backwater camp, Colonel Burkhalter - rumored to be in Poland – was unreachable.

Several days later, Klink assigned Schultz to supply detail. The sergeant huffed and puffed as he maneuvered his way through the streets of the bustling town center. His mission: find a cut-rate printing company that was willing to redesign and print new stationery, forms, and business cards for the camp. After that, he needed to locate a cut-rate sign maker to do the same. He left town hours later, having taken the time to enjoy a late lunch at one of the many fine restaurants in the area. Finally, his appetite sated and his thirst quenched, Schultz returned to the Stalag and made his report to the Kommandant.

Several days earlier, Klink had hired a skilled secretary he found through a contact; the dog handler. Both the Kommandant and Schultz had a hard time keeping their eyes off the pretty girl. She, in turn, was not as innocent as she appeared; being used to the attention, and also hiding an extreme dislike for the war, Hitler, and Fascism. She hoped that her new job would allow her to gather important information that she would later turn over to members of the Underground. Meanwhile, she felt that the Kommandant, a veteran of the Great War, was not too dangerous, and Schultz had already confessed to her that he was a Social Democrat and a former owner of a very large toy factory. Helga sorted through the samples and price sheets that Schultz had dumped on Klink's desk.

"Did I tell you to bring back prices for wedding invitations? Who is getting married?" Klink asked Schultz in a tone that would prove to be quite annoying, and common.

"They insisted, Kommandant."

"The prices are quite expensive Herr Kommandant. Are you sure we can afford this?" Helga asked as she looked through the brochures and price lists.

"Let me worry about the figures, my dear." But Klink was also surprised at the cost. With the war, certain services and supplies were at a premium. However, these fees amounted to highway robbery.

"Schultz, there is only one company represented here."

"I'm sorry Herr Kommandant. But, Hamelburg, which is verrrryyy nice, is small. Two of the shops were shuttered." Schultz tsked in sympathy. "And the other one was too busy printing propaganda. I mean informational flyers and posters," Schultz corrected himself quickly in fear that he would be arrested for speaking the truth. "And this shop is the only one left in town that can make signs."

Helga looked up at the two men, her eyes mesmerizing in their beauty. "Would you like me to go down there, Kommandant? Perhaps I can speak to them and work out a deal?"

"No, no." That was the last thing Klink wanted. He was not supposed to hire a civilian secretary, and a female at that. But he needed help. After all, there was filing to do, and he didn't trust Schultz, the dummkopf, to put things in alphabetical order, much less be able to take dictation. Helga, he had already discovered, was a whiz at shorthand, and a fast typist. The woman was a prime multitasker, and Klink was blessed to have her. He needed letters typed immediately. After all, he had many people to notify of his new assignment and promotion. Although his rank remained the same, it was an honor to have been appointed to oversee dangerous prisoners, or so he told himself, and command and get into shape the lackluster specimens assigned to guard these prisoners. Although he had planned on recruiting a civilian, out of curiosity, he had checked the turnaround time for the clerk Gratz had promised to send over, and he was sure he couldn't wait that long. After all, a man of his stature deserved, no…required…a secretary.

"Whatever you say, Kommandant." Helga replied. At the same time, she was thinking if the clerical error could be a catalyst for bigger and better things? Surely there was some way she could use this to her advantage, and the advantage of Hitler's opponents. She wasn't sure how. But, if she had her way, the chaos that may ensue from this one mistake would have repercussions far removed from misplaced mail and phone calls.

"I will go and make inquiries. Schultz, bring me my staff car."

Klink left his office in the capable hands of Fraulein Helga, while he and Schultz drove back into town. They pulled up directly in front of the printing company, and Klink marched in while Schultz waited in the car. The Kommandant, now the highest ranking officer in Hamelburg, held his head high, and in the haughtiest voice he could muster, asked the clerk behind the counter, "I would like to speak to the owner of this establishment."

The clerk, an older gentleman, showed no hint of surprise at the aristocratic colonel, his monocle and swagger cane. Klink peeked past the clerk and into the small back room. There was no sign of any work being done, or printing presses for that matter.

"This is a printing establishment, isn't it?" Klink asked as the clerk slowly put his cigarette out in the ashtray on top of the counter.

"Yes, sir."

"Are you the owner?"

"No, sir," came the bored reply.

Impatiently stomping his foot, Klink asked. "Do you know who I am?"

The clerk squinted at Klink's uniform. "An Oberst?"

Aggravated, Klink answered. "I am Kommandant Klink from the prisoner of war camp outside of town, and I venture a guess that I'm the highest ranking officer in this district."

"I guess that would be true," the clerk said as he rubbed his chin. "Well, Oberst, is there something I can help you with? The proprietor is at the plant. We only handle the orders and smaller deliveries here."

"Thank you. Yes. I may have need of a very large printing job. New stationery, calling cards, signs. Possibly more. You sent my aide back with an estimate, but sadly, it is much too high. With the war effort, you know, money is tight. So if you would please let me know how I can get in touch with Herr… what is the proprietor's name?"

"Bitmann."

"Very good. Herr Bittman. What is his number?"

The clerk gave Klink a blank stare. "He's quite busy, Oberst. I doubt you will reach him on the phone."

"Perhaps I can ask the Gestapo to get in touch with Herr Bittman?" Klink asked, although he knew that he would do no such thing.

The clerk did not take the bait. He took a piece of notepaper and scrawled down an address. "Oberst Klink, you might do better if you paid Herr Bittmann a personal visit. Shall I call over for you and let him know he should expect you?" The clerk smiled.

"Yes. Thank you. I shall do that." Klink, feeling satisfied at the progress he had made, clicked his heels, and gave the clerk a slight bow. "Heil Hitler."

"Heil Hitler," the clerk repeated. He watched the Oberst leave, and then picked up the phone. "Herr Bittman. It is Kurt down at the shop. The Kommandant from the POW camp outside of town was here. Ja. Well, I don't think he was pleased at the prices I gave his aide. He is on the way over. Nein. He did not frighten me at all. Danke."

Klink was in such a hurry, he forgot to wait for Schultz to hurry around and open the rear door to the staff car. Fortunately for Schultz, Klink did not notice that the sergeant was sleeping on the job. "We are going to the actual printing plant, Schultz. Here is the address." Klink passed over the paper.

Schultz took a map out of the glove box and traced the route. "I'm happy you made progress, Kommandant," he said as he pulled the car away from the curb.

"Rank has its privileges, Schultz, and it also open doors."

Schultz rolled his eyes at the remark. "I've never been to a printing plant before, Kommandant."

"Neither have I. I feel we will get the appropriate service from the owner. You need to speak to the man at the top. Remember that, Schultz."

"Yes, I will," the sergeant replied. Schultz left the downtown area, and turned north. After several kilometers, and two checkpoints, he turned east. A small industrial building could be seen a short distance away. "That must be the place," Schultz said.

"Obviously," Klink replied. "Drop me off in the front and then park the car."

"You don't wish me to come in with you?" Schultz asked, disappointed.

"No need. Wait in the car, and study the map."

Schultz watched Klink entered the building and rested his head on the rear of the driver's seat, closing his eyes. Within a few minutes, he began to snore.

Klink walked into a small lobby and stood in front of the closed window, which he tapped. The receptionist looked up and slid open the glass. "Good afternoon. I am Oberst Klink of Stalag 13. Herr Bittman is expecting me." Klink removed his gloves and waited.

"I will announce you, Herr Kommandant." The receptionist offered Klink a smile, and then pushed a button on the intercom. "Herr Bittman will see you now," she announced a few moments later.

Klink was escorted on to the floor of the busy plant. Workers were scurrying back and forth, the presses were humming and Klink could not hear himself think. The noise seemed to not bother his escort; a man in his 60's who introduced himself as one of the foremen, Johann Bittman, cousin to the owner. He carefully led the Kommandant around the perimeter, keeping his guest away from dangerous areas.

"It's very busy in here," Klink yelled as he took in the sights and sounds.

"What?"

"I said, it's very busy. Business is good?"

"I'm sorry, I can't hear you. Earplugs," replied the escort. "This way." He deftly stepped away from an operating forklift carrying reams and reams of paper. Another pallet nearby held pamphlets and posters, neatly tied up with string. A quick glance told Klink all he needed to know. The writing and pictures were all from Goebbels' department in Berlin. "Don't lag behind," Bittman warned." We've had no injuries yet this month. Don't want you to be the first. This way, please."

Bittman stopped outside an office. On the door was a nameplate identifying the occupant as the owner of the plant, Kurt Bittman. Klink looked through the large plate glass window that ran alongside the outer wall, giving the owner an unencumbered view of the plant floor. His escort knocked and then opened the door.

"Come in, Kommandant Kink."

"Klink. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me, Herr Bittman."

"Sit down." Bittman pointed to an office chair placed in front of his desk. Thank you Johann." His cousin nodded, clicked his heels and disappeared from the office, closing the door behind him.

"I would prefer to stand, sir. You see I'm…"

"Suit yourself. Cigar?"

"No. I'm now the highest ranking officer… are you sure it's safe to smoke those in a printing plant?"

"Can't on the floor." Bittman lit the tip and took a few puffs." He admired the cigar for a moment, and then put it in the ashtray on his desk. "Cuban," he admitted with no fear whatsoever. "Pays to get the best. I've had them for years."

"Well, I can see business is quite good," Klink stated. "Herr Bittman, I can promise you more business, now and in the future. You see, I run the Luft Stalag outside of town and I…"

"You require new stationery, business cards, signage and other assorted accoutrements to run a respectable but unfortunately mismarked and misnamed prisoner of war camp," Bittman interrupted. "That is correct, is it not?"

"Yes, sir. You are most correct." Klink now felt more optimistic, as obviously, this Herr Bittman seemed to understand what it took to run a proper POW establishment, not to mention satisfying other officers so that certain threats would be forgotten. "We do have a minor problem." Klink held back a nervous giggle. "Which you seem to be aware of."

"Word gets around town. Besides, your sergeant explained all to my shopkeeper. I am told that you cannot meet my prices?"

"That is also correct, sir. My budget can't absorb the quoted price. Since I am the highest-ranking Luftwaffe officer," Klink said quickly so as to not be interrupted and to make a point, "in this sector, and this POW camp will be one of the larger employers of young, fine, physical specimens of the glorious Third Reich…most local, I will remind you, I believe we can come to some agreement. Something mutually beneficial." Klink grinned, and approached the desk.

Bittman picked up the cigar, leaned back in his chair and placed his feet on his desk. "A mutually beneficial agreement?"

"That is correct," Klink answered eagerly.

"And if I supply you with the stationery, etcetera, what of the remainder of the issue? The mislabeled maps, and so forth."

"I…uh…I will deal with that later," Klink said with a bit of hesitation and irritation. _Is this man working for someone else?_ "With these changes, at least those visiting will know exactly where they are, and where they've been."

"Including the prisoners?" Bittman removed his legs from the desk and sat up straight. He stood up and walked around the desk, picking up a file before standing directly in front of Klink.

"Well, of course. They will eventually be able to say that Luft Stalag 6 is the toughest prison camp in all of Germany. Do you know that since I've been assigned there, we have not had one successful escape?" Klink said.

"So I have heard. Well, Kommandant. Here is our estimate for your work." He opened the file, and glanced at the contents. "The answer is no."

"No, what?" Klink, his heart sinking, asked.

"I cannot meet your demands. These prices are my final offer. I have too much state business and I cannot afford to stop my presses to print up stationery, signs and business cards for a small inconsequential POW camp. Besides, how long do you actually think your camp will be in business? I'm sure the war will be over shortly, surrender will be signed and the prisoners will be, well whatever you do with prisoners after their country surrenders. That's not my concern. My concern is complying with Herr Goebbels' orders. You do understand, don't you, Kink? I suggest you contact the real Stalag 13. Perhaps they have the incorrect stationery and signs, which would be the correct ones for you?" Bittman broke out in laughter.

"I don't find this at all funny," Klink sneered, although his response came out more like a whine. "I will see myself out, Herr Bittman."

"Very well, sir. Please do not hesitate to call again. Perhaps in the future, we may be able to assist you. Meanwhile, I would suggest you try Düsseldorf." Bittman held out his hand, which Klink ignored. "And don't forget to stay on the perimeter of the floor," he yelled to the Kommandant as Klink headed back towards the reception area.

Klink was too angry to wallow in his misery. _I am a respected Oberst. A decorated veteran of the Great War, and now a Kommandant, and this is the respect I get_. He stormed out of the plant, and quickly strode to the car. His mood got darker as his driver did not immediately get out of the car to open the door for his commanding officer. Instead, Klink pulled on the handle of the passenger door and found it was locked. He began banging on the door. "Schuuulllltz!"

Schultz was startled out of a wonderful dream that involved toys, workbenches, and chocolate fountains. He hit his head on the roof of the car, and then panicked as he realized what he had done. First he unlocked the passenger door from the inside, and then groveled. "I'm so sorry, Kommandant. I did not see you or hear you," he apologized as he scurried around the car and opened the door.

"Never mind. Just drive me back to camp."

"I take it you were unsuccessful."

"Yes, Schultz. The man was an ingrate. He should have been honored to have me come in personally and ask him to handle our important project. But, no. He was disrespectful. Too busy printing up pamphlets from Goebbels' office."

"Oh, but Kommandant. Prices are very high right now, and I'm sure there will be a shortage of paper and ink. Besides, if Herr Goebbels wants something printed, don't you think that should be the first project on the list? When I got an order from my biggest customer…"

"Oh, shut up, Schultz. I'm not interested in your civilian life. Just drive."

_Some bigshot_, Schultz thought as he turned the car and headed back to camp.


	3. Helga Goes on an Errand

.

_What's in a Name_

_Chapter 3_

_Helga Goes on an Errand_

After returning to camp, Schultz dropped the Kommandant off and then drove the car back to the motor pool. Schultz grumbled to himself that if Klink only took the time to listen to his subordinates and learn about their lives, Schultz's years of experience running a business may have helped the Kommandant bargain with the printing plant's owner. Meanwhile, a defeated Klink trudged up the steps to his office, wondering why his considerable charm and high position could not persuade the printing plant owner to negotiate. As he entered, Helga intercepted the Kommandant and handed him a hot cup of tea.

"Thank you my dear."

"You're welcome. The guard at the gate phoned when you arrived. No luck?" she asked as she followed the colonel into his office.

Klink put the cup on his desk. "No luck. Herr Bittman wouldn't budge. He's too busy with official business. And I have to believe him. The plant was very obviously operating at the highest capacity." He sat down behind his desk, opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a tin of biscuits. "Will you join me?"

"No thank you. I have more work to do. I have heard that Herr Bittman is an unpleasant man. Most people in our area went to other printing establishments in town, but they've been shut now for several years."

Klink looked up at his secretary. "Yes. Well. We must adapt, mustn't we?"

"I suppose. What do you plan to do about the mistake, Kommandant?"

"At the moment, I don't know." Klink was interrupted by the jingle of the phone. He stopped Helga with his hand before she ran into the outer room to answer. "I'll get it."

"Stalag 13," he answered. "No, not that Stalag 13. This is Luft Stalag 13. Oh, you've reached the correct camp? Wonderful." Klink looked at Helga, who smiled. "Well, this is Kommandant Klink speaking. Yes. Yes. I understand. How soon? I will need to do some expansion. Yes. Heil Hitler."

"More prisoners?" Helga asked.

"Yes. We've captured quite a few on our march across Western Europe." His previous woes now forgotten, Klink rubbed his hands together in glee and in anticipation. "They are being transported as we speak. Helga, we need to look into increasing our capacity. I'll need to see the original blueprints of the camp. Please arrange a staff meeting."

"Right away."

Helga left the office and opened the file cabinet. She pulled out a file in which she had organized a chart of all staff officers and guards that spoke other languages. Unfortunately, the list was not long, but she thought it would be helpful to the Kommandant in any case. Opening another drawer, she pulled out a file, removed its contents and put it on her desk. _This can't be right. _The blueprints were labeled Stalag 13, not Luft Stalag 13 or Luft Stalag 6, if you wanted to be technical. The complex shown on the prints was the size of a small town, not a small cleared area near the woods. She picked up the papers and knocked on Klink's door. Entering, she put both files in front of her boss, pointing at the heading. "I thought you could use this file, Kommandant. I made an organizational chart of the language skills of all the guards and staff members in camp. It's not many, but I think you may need some guards who speak more than German and Polish."

"Helga, that's brilliant. We will be getting some men from Belgium, France, and The Netherlands. And soon some from England, I hope, which is why we need the expansion."

"Yes, sir. The war seems to be heading that way," Helga replied without enthusiasm. "Unfortunately, I have some bad news. These blueprints are from the wrong camp, Kommandant."

"Are they?" Klink gazed at the papers. His secretary was correct. There was no mistake.

"Do you wish me to call the other Stalag 13 and see if they have our blueprints?" Helga asked.

"No. We don't have the time. They would have to look for them, and if they have them, by the time they get here, the prisoners will be here, and they will be sleeping outside because we won't have huts, not to mention we won't have enough sanitary facilities."

Helga nodded, appreciating that her new boss seemed to care a bit for the poor men being held captive. "Perhaps they have copies at the clerk's office in Hamelburg. I assume all architectural prints have to be checked before permits are issued, and then they're filed. If you wish, I can stop there and see if I can have copies made."

"Helga, you're a true find."

Helga smiled. "Thank you again, Herr Kommandant."

Klink smiled back, pleased that he had taken the dog handler's advice to hire this bright young woman. "Why don't you take the rest of the day off? You live in town, don't you? You can stop at the clerk's office on the way home. We'll call the staff meeting for tomorrow morning then at 0900."

"Very good, Kommandant. I'll need some money for the copies, and definitely something in writing."

Klink opened the top drawer of his desk. "Fortunately, I do have some stationery. For now, it will have to do." He pulled out an envelope and some letterhead, and jotted down a paragraph and his signature. "Here you go. And use the petty cash. Just write it down in the book. If they give you any grief, my dear, have them call me. I will be right here."

"I will call you and let you know I have them, Kommandant." Helga was now in a good mood as not only did she have an afternoon off, but it appeared as if the numbering mistake might have lasting consequences. What, she couldn't guess, but it would be interesting to find out. Before leaving the office, Helga made a few quick calls, informing the small staff of the meeting the next morning, and then left the camp.

Klink, meanwhile, gazed at the drawing of the camp on the wall behind his desk. "You will have to be updated." He took down the frame and placed it on the floor next to the window. He then took his seat behind his desk and enjoyed the rest of his tea and biscuits.

* * *

It was camp policy that Helga be escorted by one of the guards if she had to walk to another building, or to and from the gate. Although she didn't fear the small contingent of Polish prisoners, she agreed that the stares did make her a bit uncomfortable…not that she blamed the men, of course. After all, it had been quite some time since they had contact with a female. Today, her escort was Sergeant Schultz, who was quite talkative as they made their way to the front of the camp.

"Will you have to wait long for the bus, Helga?"

Helga didn't own an automobile, but fortunately a nearby bus stop was added when the stalag opened.

"No, Sergeant. One should be coming by within a half-hour," Helga replied. "Or I may walk. It's a nice day."

"I'm glad you are helping Kommandant Klink. The camp has been running much more efficiently since you arrived." Schultz stopped and good-naturedly glared at a group of prisoners, who seeing the secretary, moved a bit away from their building in order to get closer. The natural leader of the group gave Schultz a wave, and then moved his men back with a look. "I should take Polish lessons," Schultz mumbled.

"Well, you speak English perfectly," Helga said as she rewarded the group of prisoners with a small smile. "The Kommandant hopes to receive English prisoners."

"We will have a multinational camp soon. Which is nice. I like meeting people from other countries," Schultz said. He then wrinkled his brow. "Although I wish it was not this way. A transatlantic trip on an ocean liner. Now that would be the way to meet people from everywhere. I wanted to take my Gretchen on a trip to America. But now, I don't think it will ever happen," he whispered.

Helga patted his arm. "Don't give up hope," she consoled the kind guard. "This war can't last forever," she whispered. "Thank you for the escort, Sergeant," she spoke louder as they reached the gate. "I will see you tomorrow."

Helga walked out of the gates, her flat shoes allowing her to walk briskly towards the road. She made a right turn and headed towards the stop, which was only a few minutes' walk. She was mulling over whether or not to continue towards town, when she spied the bus heading her way. It stopped; she entered and paid her fare, and then sat down a few rows back. This time of day the bus was crowded with residents heading into town from the rural areas outside of Hamelburg. A few smiled at Helga, acknowledging her presence, but one, a middle-aged woman seated across the aisle, frowned at the young secretary. "You work at the camp?" she asked, disapproval obvious in her tone.

"Yes." Helga looked the woman straight in the eye. Helga saw no shame in being a working girl, despite Hitler's opinions that good German girls should be homemakers and baby-makers for the Third Reich. Well, not everyone lived a fairy-tale life. Being swept up by a nice young man, getting married and having children happened to others. There was no prince charming on the horizon, and Helga needed to work to help her family make ends meet. Her mother had been let go from her job shortly after Hitler came into power, and Helga, in turn, was unable to secure a spot at a university. Her mother, a teacher at a secretarial college, was told that her job was to keep house for her family. Although there was now a labor shortage, Helga's mother had been unable to find another position. She used her free time to teach Helga business and secretarial skills. Helga's father had also lost his position when the factory in which he worked as a business manager was taken from its Jewish owners and converted to war production. Because of these connections, he was unable to find local employment, and he now worked at a factory in Düsseldorf for less pay, and only came home on weekends.

Helga quickly exited the bus when it arrived at the stop near the center of town. Her brief altercation with the disapproving housewife now behind her, Helga took a quick look around. The town was bustling. Homemakers were out doing their daily shopping, while soldiers strolled through the area, chatting and smoking. Ahead of her was the Hotel Hauserhof; to the right was the public library. Her family could not afford to dine at the hotel, and the library's collection was purged of many of the books Helga enjoyed reading as a child. She crossed the street, eyes downcast as several members of the Gestapo passed her by on their way to their headquarters. Fortunately, they took no notice of the secretary, who, even after all these years, still could not get used to living in a police state.

"Helga?"

Upon hearing her name, Helga turned and let out a broad smile. "Max. How are you?"

"Doing as well as can be expected. Is it true you are now working at the POW camp?" Suddenly, the man frowned. "You didn't lose your job?"

"Oh, no," Helga answered. "Yes, I do work there. Oscar Schnitzer helped set it up. I'm in town on camp business for the Kommandant," she replied proudly.

Max nodded. "That's good. What is the Kommandant like?"

"He's…" Helga thought for a moment. "Well, to be honest, I've only been there a few days. It's really too soon to tell. But he seems like a decent officer, I guess. He's a veteran from the last war."

"Well, you take care." Max patted her hand. "Frankly, a POW camp is no place for a young lady."

"Well, Max, it helps with the bills. And, I think there might be some unforeseen benefits to working there." Helga looked him straight in the eye. "Besides," she added. "It's better than working in that factory." She shuddered at the memory of her duty year.

"Now that was definitely no place for you," Max stated. "I have to get back to the store. Keep me updated on how things are going at the camp."

"I will. It was wonderful to see you."

Max clasped her hands. "Tell your mother I'm expecting a nice shipment of onions in tomorrow." He quickly glanced up and down the street in an odd manner, which didn't escape Helga's notice.

"Max, be careful," she whispered in his ear.

"Always, my dear."

Her spirits lifted after her chance meeting with the greengrocer, Helga continued walking the few more blocks to the building that housed various municipal offices; the outside of the beautiful old building was marred by large flags bearing the hated symbol of Hitler's regime flying from the roof. Helga checked her hair to make sure her bun was still intact, opened up the large, heavy door, and walked inside where German bureaucracy was fully on display. Despite the war, the town still needed to run efficiently. She went up to the reception desk and approached the older gentleman seated behind it. He smiled at Helga as she approached.

"I am looking for the office that stores blueprints and building permits." Helga removed the letter Klink had issued, and passed it over to the man.

"Second floor." He passed the envelope back to Helga without checking its contents.

"Thank you. Stairs?"

The man pointed to the right.

After climbing up two flights of stairs, Helga exited the stairwell, and stood for a moment before walking down the hall. Clutching her purse, she confidently opened the door into the records room, where a lone clerk was seated at a desk behind the counter. Since it was near lunchtime, Helga assumed the rest of the employees were on their break. The clerk noticed Helga, rose from his chair, and limped over.

"Can I help you?" he asked in a disinterested voice.

"Yes. I'm here on official business for Kommandant Klink."

"Who?"

"Colonel Klink. From the POW camp outside of town," Helga responded.

The clerk tilted his head, reminding Helga of a confused dog. "There's a POW camp outside of town?"

"Yes," Helga answered, resisting the urge to ask the clerk if he read the papers. "I need to see the blueprints and any other papers for the property. And we will need copies made of some of them." Helga placed the letter on the counter.

The clerk pulled out a pair of spectacles and picked up the letter.

"Stalag 13?"

"Luft Stalag 13," Helga corrected him.

"How many prisoners you got? Just curious."

Holding back her impatience-you could not rush bureaucrats and civil servants-Helga answered, "About a hundred from Poland. But we are getting more, and that means we need to expand, which is why we need the blueprints and survey maps…as it says in the letter."

The clerk rubbed his chin. "You should have a set at camp. One set goes to the building site. One set is filed here, and the architects or engineers have the originals in their office. Where's your set?"

"We don't have one," Helga stated. "I'm not at liberty to say why."

"Well, normally you can order a set from the firm for a small fee."

"How can I do that, if I don't have a set that shows the name and whereabouts of the firm?" Helga countered.

The clerk nodded. "You do have a point there. There is a charge for making copies."

"I am aware of that. I brought cash," Helga replied.

"Wonderful." The clerk gave Helga a creepy smile. "Wait there. I'll get the file."

Helga spied a chair positioned next to the door and took a seat. At least ten minutes went by before the clerk came back, carrying a large file.

"Now I know where your camp is. It's the old wilderness property. And then they turned it into a Hitler Youth Camp."

"That's correct," Helga replied. A Hamelburg native, she knew a bit of the history of the site, although she was already grown by the time the youth camp was in operation. The original buildings were being used as barracks, a mess hall, and the Kommandant's office and quarters.

"Here you go. That's a lot of copying. It could take a while."

Helga opened the file. "Oh, there _are_ a lot of papers." Not being an architect, a builder or an engineer, Helga had to admit she was out of her element.

"Well, you probably don't need everything in there." The clerk flipped through the stack. "Like these permits and letters. You're looking for gas lines, water lines, soil samples. That kind of thing. They're adding more buildings?"

"Um. Yes. More barracks and a few others," Helga answered, now feeling a tad sorry she had judged the clerk too harshly. "But I'm sure they'll have to expand the water lines."

"If you want, you can look through the file over there." The clerk pointed to a table pushed up against the far wall. "Pull out what you want copied. Just don't mix up the order. Everything's labeled, but it's a nuisance putting them back."

"Thank you." Helga lugged the file over to the table and began looking at the pages, one by one. As the clerk had noted, she discovered many superfluous items and she was grateful he had given her the opportunity to save money and time. Thinking back to the blueprints of the other Stalag 13 she had in the office, she was pretty sure now what was needed.

After a few moments, she began to reach what she deemed was important information, including survey maps of the property, the area showing drawings of utilities, and what she hoped were future plans of expansion. She began putting those papers aside.

As the clerk had noted, the camp was originally designed as a recreational area in the 20's and had been upgraded several times. For some reason, older papers in the file were located behind the newer ones, until Helga realized the order was deliberately set that way. Determined not to miss anything, she decided to give each page a cursory once over. Suddenly, a page caught her further attention and her eyes widened at the ramifications of what she had seen. She looked over behind the counter. The clerk had disappeared into the back filing room and no one else was around. Quickly, Helga grabbed the page, folded it and placed it in her purse. Her heart now beating so hard she was afraid it would pop out of her chest, she continued looking through the rest of the file. Seeing nothing else, she closed it and picked up the pages she had set aside, and then returned to the counter.

"All set," she said with a smile as the clerk approached. "What do you think of my selection?" She crossed her ankles in an effort to stop her legs from shaking.

The clerk was obviously flattered and checked over the stack. "I think this will do fine," he answered. "But if there is a problem, give me a call." He jotted down his name and number on a sheet of paper and handed it to Helga. "I can have these copies ready for you by tomorrow noon."

"Thank you. That's very kind. I'll need a statement to bring back to camp. What do I owe you?"

"You can pay me tomorrow. I'll have an invoice ready for you. And it's a pleasure doing business with Luft Stalag 13." There was the creepy smile again.

Helga left the records office, and trying not to panic, slowly and carefully walked down the stairs to the first floor. She feared that she would be stopped and her belongings searched, but no one paid any attention to her. Her walk through town was equally tense, but again, she was not stopped. Now famished, because she dared not stop for lunch, she was grateful to finally reach the apartment building that was home. This time, she dashed up the stairs to the 3rd floor flat she shared with her parents, opened the door, barely missed tripping over her cat, and flopped on the couch, afraid she would begin to hyperventilate. "Mother?"

Thankfully, there was no answer. Her mother was most likely somewhere downtown running errands or shopping for that evening's meal. As soon as she caught her breath, Helga went into her small bedroom and sat on her bed. She opened her purse and took out the paper she had stolen from the file. She could not believe what she had done, and at this point she didn't quite know what to do with the paper, except she was sure she needed to hide it. Walking over to her desk, Helga opened a drawer, removed a letter opener, and used it to pry open a floor board next to her wardrobe. As she suspected, there was a small space underneath that was perfect for hiding the sheet of paper, and anything else she might have to hide in the future.

Returning to the desk, she pulled out an envelope. Before putting the stolen sheet inside, she gazed at it one more time. It was dated 1923, and like the other sheets she had removed for copying, it had the original and current architectural firm stamped on there. Although she knew they had the original drawings, she couldn't worry about that right now. Besides, the firm was located in Düsseldorf. What mattered were the drawings she removed from the files today…the ones the Kommandant needed to show his Luftwaffe engineers, and the stolen page, which was an old survey map from the original property, showing a mine, with its abandoned entrance located underneath what was now most of Luft Stalag 13. How the Luftwaffe and the POW department missed this was a true mystery, one Helga was determined to discover. She couldn't recall anyone in town ever speaking about a mine, which appeared to have been closed long before the previous war. For now, until she found someone she could trust with this information, it would remain safely buried underneath her floor.

* * *

I found an overwhelming amount of information on women's roles in Nazi Germany. I cobbled together several pages of notes from websites, Google books, articles, wikipedia, powerpoints put out by history professors, etc, and my own sources.

At first, women's roles were severely restricted when the Nazi's took power. Universities reduced their female quotas to 10 percent. Initially, many women lost their jobs. Men as well were moved around, and the experience of Helga's father (coming home only on the weekend) was common.

Many women considered Hitler their "savior."

Due to the eventual labor shortage, in 1937, German instituted a compulsory service plan for single women between 17-25. This was called the duty year.

"Women were supposed to emulate traditional German peasant fashions - plain peasant costumes, hair in plaits or buns and flat shoes. They were not expected to wear make-up or trousers, dye their hair or smoke in public.

The three Ks (Kinder, Kirche, Kuche) – motto for women. 'Children' for motherhood, 'Church' for morality and 'Kitchen' for wife and domestic provider.The entire focus of a females existence in Nazi Germany was supposed to be on domesticity and motherhood."

After 1936, policies began to change, as the labor shortage increased, and there was a backlash.

"Girls were taught to embrace the role of mother and obedient wife in school and through compulsory membership in the Nazi League of German Girls. However, rearmament followed by total war obliged the Nazis to abandon the domestic ideal for women. The need for labor prompted the state to prod women into the workforce (for example, through the Duty Year, the compulsory-service plan for all women) and even into the military itself (the number of female auxiliaries in the German armed forces approached 500,000 by 1945)." Holocaust museum


	4. Now Wait a Doggone Minute!

_What's in a Name_

_Chapter 4_

_Now Wait a Doggone Minute!  
_

_a/n sorry for the delay in posting. I had to give my back a rest. And thank you to Sgt. Hakeswill for her wonderful beta work!_

Once Helga realized the Gestapo was not about to knock down her door to search for a page that no one realized was missing, she relaxed and contacted the Kommandant. The staff meeting was postponed until the following afternoon, in order to give Helga time to pick up the copies of the blueprints.

An ebullient Klink, monocle in place and swagger stick under his arm, presided over the staff meeting, while Helga took copious notes in shorthand.

The camp engineer, a dour-looking captain whose primary goal in life was to keep breathing, examined the blueprints in depth, while the rest of the staff waited impatiently for his confirmation that the expansion could commence. They all hoped he would recommend that the expansion could continue indefinitely, thereby ensuring the cushy and relatively safe assignment they all craved.

"Uh uh." The engineer, blueprint in hand, walked over to Klink's window, opened the shutters and gazed out at the compound. At this time of day, it was filled with prisoners exercising, talking or doing laundry. "Hmmm." He turned the copy sideways, then back again the other way.

Helga paused, not sure quite sure how to process these odd sounds into shorthand. Taking a break, she leaned back in her chair, crossed her legs and waited, unintentionally diverting the attention of the other men in the room away from the engineer at the window.

Finally, Klink coughed, unable to bear the suspense any longer.

Hearing the sound, the engineer turned. "Question, Kommandant?"

"Yes, Captain Sunderman. We're waiting for you to grace us with an opinion. Hmmm?"

Quickly, Helga uncrossed her legs, diverting the attention back to the captain and the Kommandant. She jotted down Klink's words, then looked at Sunderman expectantly.

"I believe we can do this. Yes, indeed." Sunderman snapped his fingers.

A silent sigh of relief from the men, from the lowest ranking, to the sergeant in charge of the motor pool, and up to the Kommandant, was almost audible, and obvious to Helga.

"I will need reports from all department heads on my desk by tomorrow morning," Sunderman said. "And, Kommandant, we can use the prisoners to build more barracks, but I will need trained, licensed contractors to assist with electrical and plumbing work."

Now Klink was more than ebullient; he was almost walking on clouds. "This is a great day." He put his swagger stick aside, then shook the captain's hand. "Luft Stalag 13 will be the finest POW work camp in all of Germany. Yes, Schultz?"

Schultz, whose hand had been raised, said, "I beg to report, Kommandant, that we still need to deal with the, with the...". He walked over to Klink and whispered loudly in his ear. "You recall what that man said. He was not nice. We need to fix the numbering."

"Yes, Kommandant. What are we going to do about that mistake? My wife in Stuttgart doesn't know how to address my letters," said the armory officer.

"We'll need more food," stated Corporal Keiter, who was in charge of the messes. These statements got all the men talking at once, for nothing was more important to any military person than food and mail.

Helga stopped trying to take notes, and stood up.

"Quiet," Schultz said. After no response, he tried again. "Quieeettt! Fraulein Helga can't hear."

This stopped the cacophony immediately. Thankfully for the Sergeant-at-arms, the few officers present did not object.

Klink moved to face his staff, all in a neat row by the door. "Fraulein Helga, Sergeant Schultz, and I have been working diligently to address the misnaming issue. We hope to rectify the situation soon. I can assure you that we have everything under control."

Turning to Sergeant Schultz, he added, "And Schultz, that man assured me in his visit that we should handle it, and that he had better things to do."

"Not exactly," Schultz murmured to Helga.

"And Keiter," Klink continued. "I suggest you start dealing with the local farmers, rather than rely solely on military shipments. Besides, the food will be fresher."

"As you wish, Kommandant."

"Is that it for comments and questions?" Klink asked. "No? Diiisssmisssed!"

Helga approached the Kommandant. "I'll type up these notes for you."

"Thank you, Helga. I think the meeting went well, don't you?"

"Yes, sir."

Helga was quick to realize that, like her cat, Klink's ego needed to be constantly stroked. The difference between the two, however, was that the cat had higher self-esteem. Thinking about her cat reminded her that she needed to speak to the dog handler about his last bill. Catching up to Schultz before he left the office, Helga asked him to inform her the next time Oskar came to camp.

Work began on the expansion the following day. In exchange for extra electricity and hot water, Polish prisoners were tapped to help build the barracks that would hold the newly captured airmen being transported to camp. These construction crews were watched over by Schultz and several of his guards.

"Stop right there!" Schultz said in broken Polish. He put down his rifle and pointed to Sergeant Chernetsky, who paused from his hammering. Schultz stepped forward, ignoring the fact that his rifle was now leaning unattended against the rear wall of what was to become Barracks 12. "Your pockets."

"What?" asked Chernetsky. He shook his head to indicate he didn't understand what the guard was saying.

Schultz patted his own pockets then stepped forward and held out his hand. Chernetsky looked down at the ground and shrugged, then rifled through his pockets, removing several nails, some screws, a ruler, a piece of chalk and some string.

"The nails and screws," Schultz demanded, as he held out his hand. The other guards moved over to where this little altercation was taking place.

At the same time, while the Germans were distracted, another set of prisoners walked along the edge of the building. Their hands were in their pockets, and as they moved, clods of dirt fell from inside their pants legs, unnoticed onto the ground.

* * *

Along with new facilities, new prisoners warranted an increase in enlisted camp personnel. Klink had initiated the request for extra guards as soon as word came that the prisoners were on the way. He also had enough foresight to ask for personnel that spoke English and French.

However, as May turned into June, and word came that the British Expeditionary Force and thousands of French had been evacuated from Dunkirk, Klink became nervous. The steady trickle of expected new prisoners now threatened to turn into a rapid torrent of French and British, with a smattering of Dutch and Belgian airmen added into the mix. After all, Klink's stalag was located near the Dutch and Belgian borders. Klink logically assumed that rather than create logjams in the railroad network, German authorities would drop off the captured airmen at the closest facility. But the expected guards did not arrive at the front gate, so Klink was forced to do what he hated most: make inquiries on the phone.

His guards had been sent to the wrong stalag.

And, as Klink soon discovered, German bureaucrats were not using common sense. Prisoners were sent first to an interrogation center, then to a transit center, and then to their final destination. Many of these were located further east, a logical choice, he realized, as this made successful escapes less likely. Fortunately, this gave the construction crew a few extra weeks to prepare, and it gave Klink extra time to find guards.

The veterinarian returned to the stalag the following week. He struggled to switch the dogs; for they seemed to react viciously to the guards.

Schultz gingerly approached the van and waited until Schnitzer closed the door to the dog pen before speaking to the normally surly and grumpy owner.

"What do you want Schultz?" Schnitzer asked as he checked off marks on his clipboard.

"Aren't you removing any dogs?" Schultz replied.

Schnitzer shook his head. "More prisoners coming in. I need to add more guard dogs."

Schultz jumped back from the fence as one of the dogs, a large male, snarled. Meanwhile, Schnitzer turned around, forcing Schultz to turn as well. Behind Schultz's back, and unnoticed by other guards busy with other duties, one new prisoner stuck his hand through the fence and gave another dog a pat and a treat. The animal responded with a lick, after which the prisoner quickly left.

"Fraulein Helga asked me to take you into the office. She has a question about a bill."

"Oh? Well, let's get this over with then. I have work to do back in town. I have a practice to run as well." Schnitzer smiled under his breath. He was always willing to say hello to Helga; after all, he had known her since she was a little girl, and he and his wife were friendly with Helga's parents.

Schultz, as wary of the vet as he was of the dogs, took Schnitzer into the outer office, then left to continue with his duties. As soon as the sergeant shut the door behind him, Schnitzer gave Helga a hug, then sat in the chair next to her desk. "Is the Kommandant in?" he asked.

Helga shook her head. "He's at a meeting in town." She wrinkled her nose. "He is still looking for extra guards; then he has to stop by the Gestapo office. There is a new head, and he asked to speak with Kommandant. You forgot to sign your latest invoice."

"Ah." Schnitzer grabbed a pen, and signed the paper with a flourish. "There. Everything is under control."

"I'll see that the Kommandant issues a check as soon as he gets back. He's very pleased with your service, by the way. But the Kommandant and the guards are all terrified of the dogs. "

"Well, then I'm doing my job, Helga. They are guard dogs, after all. Vicious dogs that will save Germany from all these dangerous prisoners," Schnitzer said. "But don't worry about them hurting you. You aren't wearing a uniform."

Helga tilted her head. "I sense a bit of sarcasm. The prisoners aren't really dangerous."

Schnitzer patted Helga's hand. "No, they are the enemy, and we have to be on our toes."

Helga frowned. "Well, if you say so, Herr Schnitzer. And, before I forget, I can't thank you enough for helping me get this job. It is a big help."

"You're welcome. And thank you for taking in the stray. It's hard to find people to take in animals nowadays. War jitters, you know." Schnitzer stood up. "I must be going, I have rounds to make."

"Thanks for stopping by. And the cat is no trouble. She keeps us company when my father is away," Helga told him.

After the dog-handler had left, Helga resumed her typing. A short while later, however, she decided to step outside for a moment, as it was a pleasant day and she needed some fresh air.

The usual guard was elsewhere as she opened the door and stepped outside, so Helga was alone as a curious event caught her attention. A guard was putting one of the dogs back into the pen and, as usual, the dog snarled and appeared to growl at the German.

Meanwhile, a few prisoners were tossing a ball around the yard. It got loose and rolled to the dog pen which, by now, was closed. One of the men, a Polish corporal, hurried over to retrieve it.

Helga held her breath as she expected unpleasant reactions, from both the dogs and the guards, as the prisoner got closer. The guard reacted quickly, ordering the prisoner away with frantic waves. But, to Helga's utter surprise, the dogs did not respond as expected. Not only did they not bark, snarl or growl, but she swore she could see one wagging its tail. The prisoner glanced at the animal, picked up the ball, then quickly left the vicinity.

For several days after Schnitzer's visit, Helga made a point to watch interactions with the dogs as much as possible. And, sure enough, the dogs reacted viciously to the guards, but not to the prisoners.

That weekend, when Helga was off, she decided to pay a visit to the vet. As an excuse, she brought his check, along with the blueprint she removed from the clerk's file. In case she was stopped, she brought file folders home, with the blueprint mixed in with other papers. She could always say she took some work home, and had told the Kommandant this.

* * *

After leaving her parents' apartment, she hopped on her bicycle to ride the several miles outside of town where Schnitzer's home and practice was located.

"I appreciate you delivering the check, Helga. But it wasn't necessary. I would have waited for the mail."

Schnitzer, Helga, and Schnitzer's wife, Greta, sat around the kitchen table, enjoying some cake and tea. This was the first time Helga had been inside their home although, over the years, she had accompanied her mother and their various cats to the vet's small office at the back of the house. Until she began working at the camp, she had never come across his guard dogs.

Helga took a sip of tea. "I need to ask you a question. It's about your dogs."

Greta stood up. "I will leave you two alone if you are talking business. Why don't you sit on the veranda or go for a walk?"

Schnitzer nodded. "Come outside. We'll take a little walk." He gave his wife a look and then headed to the front of the house.

"All right." Helga followed the vet outside. "Well, I was thinking about what you said back at camp the other day." Helga bit her lip, uncertain as to how best to approach the subject. "The dogs seem quite nasty, so much so that they frighten the guards. But, Herr Schnitzer." She paused a moment to gather her courage. "Something I saw that afternoon made me wonder; wonder if you' re up to something?"

Schnitzer stopped. "What did you see?"

"One of the prisoners got close to the dog pen. The dogs didn't react, and I thought one actually wagged its tail."

"That's ridiculous. What dog was it? Do you know? I'll need to switch it out."

Helga, hands on hips, stared at the veterinarian. "You seem a bit defensive, but not surprised. They react to German uniforms, but not others, don't they?" As Schnitzer tried to deny the truth, Helga stopped him. "It's all right. You've known our family for a long time. You know where we stand."

"Come with me," he said. He took Helga away from the house, back to the shelter and pens where the dogs were trained. "As you can see, I have a nice collection of uniforms here." He showed her Luftwaffe uniforms, as well as uniforms of Allied soldiers. "Once I got the contract for the guard dogs, I was able to get the uniforms from the army. It's a matter of good training. The dogs are smart. They know who is friend and who is foe. And with certain signals, they can put on an act."

Helga didn't ask who knew the signals or who might be able to control the dogs besides the guards. She suspected word might have spread throughout the prison population.

"But no one has escaped from camp. We've had a few attempts, but they didn't get far at all. I recall the dogs found the prisoners outside the wire."

Schnitzer shrugged. "Klink is lucky, Helga. And we don't want the prisoners getting hurt. This is dangerous work for all of us. Please forget what I've told you."

She nodded. "I do have one question for you. Do you know anything about past mining operations in this area?"

He stroked his chin. "No, I haven't heard of anything like that. And we've lived here a long time. Why do you ask?"

"I have something to show you. In fact, I'd like to pass it to you for safekeeping. It's in the file I brought with me," Helga said.

The two walked back into the house and, in full sight of Schnitzer's wife, Helga pulled the blueprint out of her file. "I found this by accident in the clerk's office. I wasn't thinking, really. But I just took it and hid it at home. Mother and Father don't know about this, and they won't know, if you decide to keep it, or pass it on to the right people." She passed the paper over.

"This is right underneath part of the camp!" he exclaimed. "Why would they put a POW camp on top of a mine entrance?" He showed it to his wife.

"That doesn't make any sense," she said. "I didn't even know there were mines here."

"It's not my area of expertise, but it appears this entrance was never completed. They must have scrapped the project," Schnitzer said. "Does anyone else know about this?"

"No. but the originals are with the firm in Düsseldorf," Helga answered. "What does this mean?"

"It means that either someone made an egregious error when they switched the property over to the Luftwaffe," said Schnitzer. "Perhaps the blueprint just got lost or they overlooked it. Not many people know about the entrance, I would assume. I've been out there with the dogs and I've never seen it. Another possibility is that someone knew the entrance was there and picked the location purposely. But, either way, there's a large cavernous opening under the barracks. The Nazis don't know about it, but we do."


End file.
